A Holy Vengeance (7 page)

The Templar paused. “Once that has been done, we will speak to the family. You said that you sent Roget to apprise them of Mistress Ferroner’s death?”

At Nicolaa’s nod, he requested that the captain accompany them to the armoury when he and Gianni went there. “He is familiar to the father and husband,” he explained, “and will be a useful liaison while I interview them.”

“And Mistress Turner?” Nicolaa asked.

“We will leave her until last,” Bascot replied. “If we are armed with as many facts as it is possible to obtain, it might make it easier to ascertain whether or not she is telling the truth.”

Leaving the castellan in the herb garden, the Templar and Gianni went out to the stables to order a mount saddled for the lad. As they waited for a groom to attend to the task, the pair stood in easy company and Bascot noted that Gianni was developing a maturity that was evident in the confidence of his stride and the upright manner in which he held his shoulders. His unruly mop of black curly hair had been shorn and a shadow of darkness on his cheeks revealed he had now begun to shave. In his dark green tunic with the de la Haye emblem of a five-pointed star on the breast, and the leather pouch containing his writing implements strapped to the belt around his waist, he looked every inch the valued and competent clerk he had striven so hard to become. The Templar’s heart swelled with pride as he regarded him.

With Bascot on the grey gelding he had ridden from the commandery and Gianni on a palfrey, they left the bail and turned onto Ermine Street and, a few moments later, passed through Newport Arch and headed north.

As they turned off and rode along the path to the sanctuary, it soon became obvious that Bishop William had not made any delay in carrying out his intention to reconsecrate the shrine. Before they had left the herb garden, Nicolaa de la Haye had told the Templar about Dean Roger’s visit and, as he and Gianni neared the dell where the shrine was located, they saw three palfreys in the care of a groom, all caparisoned with coverings emblazoned with the insignia of the see of Lincoln. Farther ahead a group of villagers were gathered about the statue of St. Duncan, heads bowed respectfully as a priest, in full liturgical regalia consisting of a chasuble worn over an alb and a stole at the neck, intoned the final words of the rite. Two Benedictine monks stood a little behind him to assist in the ceremony, attired in the black robes of their order. As Bascot and Gianni quietly dismounted and stood at the back of the crowd, one of the monks held out a flask of holy water to sprinkle around the base of the statue. As the priest turned to take the vial, the Templar recognised him as Dean Roger, who was a familiar figure in the cathedral precincts. The bishop must indeed be concerned about the repercussions that had followed the murder, the Templar reflected, to send such a high-ranking cleric to conduct the cleansing.

After leading the small congregation in a closing prayer and then a paternoster, the dean brought the service to an end. In the overhanging branches of an oak tree, two ravens were perched, silently watching the proceedings.

Before leaving the dell, Dean Roger spoke a few words of encouragement to the villagers, telling them that, henceforth, they need have no fear to tend the shrine or take the path that led past it. “Any trace of the evil act that was done here has now been expunged,” he assured them, “by the blessing of Our Lord Jesus Christ Himself.”

With this closing remark, he and the monks made their way from the tiny glade, and went back to where their mounts were waiting.

Before the crowd of villagers could disperse, Bascot walked over and spoke to one of them, a man who seemed to have a bearing of authority. “I am Bascot de Marins of the Templar Order, and have been sent by Lady Nicolaa de la Haye to investigate the murder that took place here,” he said. “I would like to speak to Rudd, the reeve of Burton village. Are you he?”

“I am,” the man confirmed. “How may I help you, lord?”

“I would like to ask if you, or any of the other villagers, have recently seen any strangers in the area—either on the morning that the young woman was slain, or during the days before.”

The reeve was a man who suited his name, for both his hair and countenance were a fiery red. Rubbing the rusty-coloured stubble on his chin with his fingers, he hesitated before answering but, when he did, he was forthright. “I begs your pardon, lord, if I seems too forward, but all of us in the village is certain as how ’twas the Devil that killed that poor young woman. Two days afore she was murdered, just about midday, the ravens wus makin’ a terrible fuss, croakin’ and cawin’ like we’ve never heard, and we cum runnin’ to see what was the matter.

“We couldn’t find anything amiss here in the dell, so we thought it might be that some crows had attacked them—crows will do that, you know, for even though they are smaller birds, they can fly faster than ravens and swoop and dive more quickly—while trying to steal food that penitents had left for the guardians of the shrine, but we couldn’t see any. Now, after we’ve all had time to think it over, we’re sartin sure that the birds were tryin’ to warn us that Satan, or one of his demons, was near.”

Bascot glanced up at the birds, still sitting bright-eyed and watchful. Or, the Templar thought, it could have been that they had been disturbed by a mortal murderer, come to inspect the place where he planned to commit his crime.

The Templar told Rudd nothing of his thoughts, just thanked him for the information and then watched as he and the other villagers walked back down the path that led to Burton. Once they had gone, he went over to the shrine. Of simple construction, similar to many found in the countryside all over England, it bore no obvious marks of the recent tragedy. The ground, having been trampled by the feet of the dean and his assistants and also the villagers during the reconsecration, was too scuffed to find any trace of the murderer’s passage.

“It is a shame that so many have been here since the death took place,” Bascot said to Gianni after relating what the reeve had said, and his own opinion that in addition to a devilish presence, the disturbance could just as easily been caused by a man come to reconnoitre the spot where he would lie in wait for his victim. “If the killer left behind any sign of his identity, it has now been obliterated.”

Gianni made a gesture encompassing the encircling woods to ask if he should search the trees for traces of the assailant. Bascot nodded. The lad had sharp eyes; if there was anything to be found, he would discover it.

As Gianni walked to the edge of the dell and stepped carefully into the greenwood, and began peering at the ground and into the undergrowth, Bascot reviewed what Lady Nicolaa had told him of Mistress Turner’s evidence. The murdered woman must have fallen not far from where he was standing, just a foot or two from the base of the pile of weathered stone on which the statue of St. Dunstan stood. As he tried to re-enact the murder in his mind, a small movement distracted him. It was one of the ravens, which had flown down and alighted on the ground a small way from where he was standing. As he turned his head towards it, it hopped closer, carrying something in its beak. Bascot watched with interest, standing very still and waiting to see its intent. The bird came closer until it was level with him and then dropped whatever it was carrying beside his feet. After one bright upward glance from its black eye, it hopped away again and took flight back up into the tree.

The Templar reached down and picked up what the raven had been carrying. It was a scrap of rough linen, of a quality used to fashion inexpensive summer cloaks worn by people of lesser means, and entwined in the weave of the fabric were a few strands of hair, dark auburn in colour. He recalled that Lady Nicolaa had told him that Constance Turner had said that when the ravens attacked the assailant they had pecked at his head as they had driven him away. This scrap of material must be a part of the hood attached to the murderer’s cloak, he thought, and the birds had torn it off during their onslaught, taking along a few strands of the killer’s hair as they did so.

Realizing he had just been given an important piece of evidence, Bascot looked up gratefully into the boughs of the tree. Both birds were now on one of the lower branches, perched side by side, watching him. Bowing his head, he offered up a prayer of thanks to God and St. Dunstan for the vigilance of the sentinels they had sent to guard the shrine.

“From what Gianni and I learned at the shrine today, lady, there is no longer any doubt in my mind. I have certain proof that neither the Devil nor a demon was responsible for Emma Ferroner’s death,” Bascot said to Nicolaa after they had returned to the castle and been shown into her private chamber.

Handing the castellan the scrap of cloth the ravens had given him, he related how he had come by it. “You will recall that Mistress Turner told us that the ravens flew at Emma Ferroner’s assailant and attacked him with their beaks. Her witness is borne out by that piece of material, for they must have torn it from the hood covering the murderer’s head, and that is why one of the birds gave it to me. St. Dunstan, through his shrine’s guardians, is sending us a message, lady. Of what import would this piece of evidence be if the murderer had been the Devil? He can change shape at will; whatever clothing He assumed would have vanished in the transformation along with this scrap of fabric.”

The castellan crossed herself and looked down at the cloth. “Thanks be to God,” she murmured, “and St. Dunstan. The saint and Lucifer are old enemies; they know each other well and therefore, through this evidence, he is telling us that it is not the Devil that committed the crime.”

“And neither, do I believe, is it a man possessed by a demon. While it is true that, as described in the Bible, inhabitation by such an entity is possible, it is also very rare. And in the few cases I have heard described, the occupancy usually results in a severe physical disability or a mazing of the wits. I do not think such a poor tortured soul would, as is indicated by what the reeve told me, have had the foresight to go to the shrine two days prior to his crime in order to reconnoitre the place where he intended to kill.”

“Yes,” Nicolaa agreed. “When I was young, I remember there was a woman in one of the villages in my father’s demesne who claimed she had a demon inside her head that was making her brain ache insufferably. She apparently kept banging her head on the ground and on walls in an effort to make the demon depart. My father sent for a priest to go to the village and exorcise her, but before he had time to get there she had thrown herself into the village pool and drowned. I think your deduction is correct, de Marins; our murderer has been too canny to be possessed by a demon.”

She pondered for a moment and then said, “This evidence is incontrovertible for me, but I fear the townsfolk are too panic-stricken to follow the reasoning, even if they are told it was obtained by St. Dunstan’s intercession. As Dean Roger reminded me, logic is unlikely to prevail in this instance. The only proof that will satisfy the populace is for the culprit to be apprehended and revealed to be just a mortal man who has an earthly motive for murder.”

After examining the scrap of cloth in her hand, she added, “From this piece of evidence, it would appear that Mistress Turner was telling the truth after all.”

“Yes, and there are further signs that prove her story,” the Templar replied. “Gianni made a thorough search of the woods, and found that some of the bushes in the undergrowth had leaves and stems that were badly broken as though someone had trampled them in haste. That fits with the perfumer’s description of the assailant’s wild flight when the ravens chased him.”

The castellan walked over to the narrow casement set in the outside wall of her private chamber, and held the small piece of material up to the light. It was roughly triangular in shape, with a blunt end that tapered to a narrow apex where a few threads of the fabric hung loose. The hairs that were entangled in the cloth were all approximately six inches in length and dark brown, but glinted with a reddish hue when held up to the narrow bar of sunlight streaming through the window.

Nicolaa returned to her desk and laid the scrap on the table. “The strands are short, so it is unlikely they came from a woman’s head,” she said, “although that is not impossible if they were torn from the hairline. But it is more likely they belong to a man, as Mistress Turner asserted, and not a female garbed in masculine clothing.”

“I agree, lady,” Bascot replied. “But even though we can assume the gender with a degree of confidence, it will still be difficult to identify the owner. That colour of hair is not uncommon and there are many people with rents in the hoods they wear that have been torn by innocent accident or simply through wear. Nonetheless, this evidence will greatly aid us. Any man that has hair of a different hue can be eliminated from suspicion—at least from commission of the actual deed—and if we have a suspect that fits the criterion of hair colour and who possesses a hood with a tear of that shape, it will go far towards confirming his guilt.”

Nicolaa touched the material with a forefinger. “Strange how past experiences often repeat themselves, de Marins,” Nicolaa opined. “I recall that, shortly after you arrived in Lincoln, it was a tiny piece of material that helped lead you to the person who murdered four people in an alehouse.”

Gianni, who was busily writing down all that had been seen and heard that morning, looked up and the Templar nodded. “Except that time, lady, it was Gianni who was guided to the finding of it, not myself.”

He tucked the bit of fabric back into his scrip. “Apart from those involved in the investigation, it would be wise to keep this information private. The less information the killer realises we have about him, the easier it will be to take him unawares.”

The castellan gave a nod of agreement.

“And as for the reeve’s evidence that the ravens were making a disturbance at the shrine two days prior to the killing,” Bascot continued, “if we find a suspect who has no witness to his presence anywhere else at that time, it will strengthen the case against him.”

“This new information goes some way towards eliminating Mistress Turner’s culpability, but it does not exonerate her completely,” Nicolaa said thoughtfully. “Thanks to the ravens, her evidence is now proved truthful in that it was someone else who carried out the murder, but there is still no surety that she was not an accomplice. I cannot dismiss the fact that she lied about having an argument with the victim.

“I will keep her in custody for the time being,” she decided. “You said you wished to interrogate her after you had visited the armoury, de Marins. Is that still your intent?”

“No, I will speak to her beforehand. Now it is certain we are looking for a mortal killer, there is an urgency to discover his motive and, to that end, I would like to learn more about the victim; who her friends were, where she went in the town and so on. If I am in possession of such facts, I can be alert for any untruths that may be told by those I interview at the armoury. Mistress Turner knew Emma Ferroner well, and if, as seems indicated, the perfumer is innocent, she should be able to provide me with the information. If she is not willing to do so, then her reluctance will confirm her guilt.”

“Very well,” Nicolaa said. “And to a similar purpose, I have sent a message to Master Drogue, the apothecary that supplies the medicaments used here in the castle, requesting that he attend me. The perfumer said that Emma Ferroner had visited some of the apothecaries in the town seeking an aid to conception. Master Drogue is one of the most prominent practitioners of his craft in Lincoln and will be able to ask among his colleagues as to whether or not that is true, which will go further towards confirming, or refuting, Mistress Turner’s testimony.”

The Templar stood up. “The hour grows late, lady, and I must return to the commandery. I will interview the perfumer in the morning and afterwards go with Gianni and Roget to the armoury.”

The castellan rose from her seat as well. “I am greatly encouraged, de Marins, by what has taken place today. Let us pray that tomorrow will be just as successful.”

* * *

As Bascot left the keep, Roget was just emerging from the barracks. When he saw the Templar, he came striding across the bail.

“Hola, de Marins. I am relieved to see you here. Ernulf has just told me that you are going to investigate this crime. Constance is innocent, I am certain, just as I also know you will prove it.”

“With God’s help, I trust it will be so,” Bascot replied cautiously.

The captain shook his head sadly. “Constance is very distressed,” he said, “and although that is to be expected, I do not like to see her so.”

“So you still have some affection for her?” Bascot asked.

“I do,
mon ami
,” Roget admitted. “Even though we parted, she is very dear to me.”

“I will speak to her tomorrow,” the Templar told him, “and then Lady Nicolaa has given permission for you to accompany me to the armoury and question Emma Ferroner’s father and husband, and the men in the workshop.”

“I will be in the bail at first light to meet you,” Roget promised.

* * *

The Templar wended his way back to the preceptory, saddened by the emptiness of the Minster as he passed through. Normally on a summer evening, even this late, there would still be people lingering to gossip, and a few vendors hawking the last of their wares. Now, not even a mangy dog was in sight; all was lonely and still.

When he went into the enclave, he found d’Arderon and Brother Feradac still sitting at a table in the refectory, even though the evening meal had been eaten some time before. They had been waiting for him, eager to know how the murder investigation was progressing.

Taking a place alongside the Scottish brother, he gave them a brief summation of the details surrounding Emma Ferroner’s death, of his and Gianni’s visit to the shrine and the evidence the ravens had given him. Both monks crossed themselves, giving thanks for the heavenly intercession, and then listened with furrowed brows as Bascot told them of the townspeople’s anxiety that Satan was stalking Lincoln.

“They are too frightened to attend services at any of the churches, even the cathedral, for fear they will be killed through the Devil’s agency. While the evidence given by St. Dunstan’s ravens proves to both my and Lady Nicolaa’s satisfaction that they are mistaken, I fear it is too nebulous to convince them of their error. Even though I am certain Beelzebub was not directly involved in this murder, it is a victory for Him nonetheless.”

“And one that must be overthrown,” d’Arderon said in his old decisive manner. “And I think there is a way that can be accomplished.”

The ailing preceptor turned to MacHeth. “We have extra brothers in the enclave at the moment. What say you to organising them into patrols to guard the cathedral and other places of worship in the town? Their presence should give the townsfolk the courage to enter and partake in Mass and, with God’s grace, will confound Satan as well.”

“An excellent plan, Preceptor,” MacHeth exclaimed, his face lighting up. “With your permission, I will go now and make the arrangements.”